Tono thrived as a post town on the “Salt Trail” connecting the coast and inland. This history of trade birthed a unique food culture, notably “Tono Genghis Khan.” Beginning in the early Showa period, the custom of eating mutton—originally raised for wool—deeply permeated the local community, eventually evolving into a beloved soul food. Today, it is said that nearly every household in Tono owns a specialized Genghis Khan grill pan. The wild, robust umami of the meat, perfectly harmonized with a secret savory sauce, creates a profound flavor profile where the unique climate and rich history of Tono intersect. To dine on this dish is to taste the very vitality of a town that has served as a cultural crossroads for centuries.
The summers along the Sanriku coast are sometimes shrouded in a profound melancholy. This is brought upon by the yamase, a cold, damp easterly wind blowing from the Sea of Okhotsk high-pressure system from early to mid-summer. Blocking the sun with thick fog and stripping the warmth from the earth, this wind has long subjected the coastal people to the cruel ordeal of cold-weather crop damage. How, then, did the people sustain their lives in a land where rice would not ripen adequately? The answer lay in the untamed ocean of Noda Village.
To survive, they boiled the sea. Unlike the salt terraces of western Japan, which rely on the sun and wind to evaporate water naturally, this cool region with scarce sunlight necessitated a primitive and painstakingly laborious method known as Jikini (direct boiling). In massive iron cauldrons, seawater was relentlessly boiled down over roaring wood fires. Facing the flames through the night, the coastal dwellers extracted pure white crystals from tens of thousands of drops of seawater. Noda salt was not merely a seasoning; it was the flesh and blood of the coastal people, the very “crystals of survival.”
However, tasting salt alone could not fill their stomachs. To exchange this precious commodity for inland grains, they had to cross the colossal barrier of the Kitakami Massif. It is here that the men known as ushikata (cattle drivers) and their robust Nambu cattle step onto the stage of history.
From a geological perspective, the Kitakami Massif is a formidable mountain block formed by the uplifting of some of the Japanese archipelago’s oldest strata (dating back to the Paleozoic and Mesozoic eras), characterized by deeply eroded V-shaped valleys and steep, unforgiving ridges. The ushikata would load each cow with about 60 kilograms of salt in straw bags, leading a small herd on a grueling trek of over 100 kilometers to Morioka, or even further to Kazuno in Akita Prefecture—a journey that took nearly a week.
Through deep primeval forests of beech and Mongolian oak, stepping over muddy trails, and sometimes fearing the presence of bears and wolves, they pressed westward in silence. The only solace on their harsh journey was likely the dull clanking of bells swaying on the cattle’s necks and the melancholic melody of the Nambu Ushioi Uta (Nambu cattle-herding song) echoing through the ravines. Their singing voices were absorbed by the dampness of the solitary woods.
Upon reaching the inland villages, the ushikata traded their salt for rice, foxtail millet, and barnyard millet. Loading these life-saving grains onto the cattle, they crossed the treacherous mountains once again to return to their starving, waiting families. This “Salt Trail” stretching from Noda to the inland was not merely an artery for the distribution of goods. It was an essential spiritual lifeline that bound the sea and the mountains, a testament to the indomitable tenacity of those who dared to cross the steep peaks to ensure the survival of their kin.
Today, if you step onto the old trail leading from Noda Village to the Hiraniwa Plateau, you will find deep hollows carved into the moss-covered rocks. These are the traces of sheer willpower, where the hooves of tens of thousands of cattle and the straw sandals of the ushikata steadily “eroded” the hard strata over an eternity. Just as harsh nature carves mountains and pierces valleys, their relentless footsteps etched a profound path into the earth. Yet, at the end of this grueling history of erosion, a prayer remained that could never be scraped away. The crystals of the roaring sea, carried inland, became the sustenance of life—flesh and blood—thickly “depositing” layers of Iwate’s resilient history and culture across generations. Stand still in the silent forest, close your eyes, and listen closely. From beyond the ancient yamase fog, can you not hear the faint ringing of bells from those who kept walking, simply to live?
